


What Remains

by oooknuk



Series: Try a little tenderness [2]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-26 04:17:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10779414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oooknuk/pseuds/oooknuk
Summary: Cassandra returns.





	What Remains

Joe had to grin to himself as his temporary barman brushed past him for the third time in fifteen minutes - ostensibly to get another order for a customer, but surely someone as cat-footed as Methos could do that without rubbing himself against Joe's butt every time. They hadn't discussed rules for public behaviour, it was just natural to both of them to be discreet, but somehow, Methos managed to drive Joe quietly wild with desire while doing nothing more harmful than serving behind the bar.

When Methos bent over to adjust the beer tap, Joe couldn't resist a little revenge, and goosed the backside so enticingly presented. Methos shot upright and glared at his 'boss'.

"Something wrong, Adam?" Joe asked blandly, radiating innocence.

Methos' expression promised retribution, but the slight twinkle in the wide hazel eyes told Joe that it wasn't necessarily going to be unpleasant. "That tap's leaking again," was all he said.

"I know. I'll get to it tomorrow before we open."

"Oh, I thought you were planning a lie-in," Methos said guilelessly.

"Me? No ... ah, yeah, you're right, I was," Joe hastily amended, in response to the humour he saw. "Of course, it depends if I feel like it or not."

"I can pretty much guarantee you will," Methos said in a low voice.

"Down, brat," Joe said quietly, grinning despite himself, but turning his back on the crowd. "You're a fucking menace - I may have to rethink this arrangement."

"But where else will you get a barman so cheap, Joe?" Damn, that man was a flirt, Joe thought.

"You gotta take into consideration all the hidden costs - wear and tear for a start."

"So I'll have to find a way to make it up to you," Methos purred. "Look out - customer."

Joe turned and took the man's order, and Methos was quickly occupied with others coming up to the bar. The band playing was popular, and their set breaks sent hordes of thirsty people Joe and Methos' way. There was little time for chitchat until the bar closed an hour later.

Methos was putting the chairs up when he stiffened in a way Joe instantly recognised. "It's Mac," Joe said, and Methos nodded, not with any great enthusiasm. They had seen Mac the week before, and irregularly in the month since the run in with O'Rourke, but he had been distant, self-absorbed. They both knew why, and understood, but the Highlander hadn't been the best of company lately. And tonight looked as if it wasn't going to be any different, judging by the dour expression Mac was wearing. Without asking, Joe got out three glasses and poured them all a whiskey - long experience told him when a conversation was going to go better with the lubrication of booze.

Mac sat on a stool and took the glass with murmured thanks. He looked at Methos as the older Immortal came and sat beside him. "Methos," he said in simple acknowledgement. "Good, I'm glad you're here." His expression was anything but glad.

"Always glad to help, MacLeod. What can I do for you?"

Mac looked at Joe, and the Watcher felt something cold slither in his gut. He knew that look - he really wished he didn't. Methos was still watching curiously, waiting for an answer. Joe responded instead.

"Who is it, Mac?"

"Cassandra."

"Jesus," Joe couldn't help but curse as he saw the colour drain from Methos' face. "What's she doing in town?"

"I think I can answer that, Joe," Methos said in a calm voice at odds with his stricken expression. "She's come for me, hasn't she, Mac."

Mac nodded, pure distress written on his face. "I've been trying to talk her out of it all day. The only concession she gave me was for me to tell you myself, and to give you some time to prepare."

"Run away, you mean." The two Immortals' gazes were locked.

"If you run, she will Hunt you. And she will find you, Methos. She's convinced me of that."

Methos gave a quick, humourless bark that might have been a laugh. "So what's this, MacLeod? One last night to contemplate my sins?"

"Do what you want, Methos. But she wants to meet you at dawn, down in the old warehouse district. I've insisted she lets me be there to make sure it's a fair fight."

"Protecting me or her, Highlander?" Methos said sardonically, but Joe didn't miss the flicker of sorrow in his dark eyes.

"Methos ...." Mac's voice was deep with misery. "I don't want this. But I can't stop her, and I can't protect you."

"It's all right, Mac. You can't fight my battles for me, especially one this overdue. Go back to Cassandra. And tell her ..." Methos paused and his eyes slid to Joe's face before he finished, "... tell her to get some sleep. We'll meet at dawn."

"Methos! You can't do this!" Joe exploded, and both Immortals looked at him in surprise.

"Joe, I thought you of all people would understand why I have to," Methos said almost sorrowfully.

"Run, leave ... damn it, if you kill her, Mac will never forgive you ..."

"Joe ..." Mac started to protest.

"And if she wins, _I'll_ never forgive you!"

Joe pleaded with his lover to listen. Methos stretched a hand across the bar and twined his fingers with the bluesman's. "Joe, this is something which has been a long time coming. And Cassandra deserves her day. God knows I've denied her long enough. Mac will ensure it is fair, I have no doubt."

In desperation, Joe appealed to the Highlander. "MacLeod, if Methos wins, you promise me you won't take his head."

"Joe, I don't want any of this. This is Cassandra's choice - if she dies because of it, I won't interfere. Just don't ask me to choose which one I want to live, because I want you both to," and Joe realised that there were tears in the Scot's voice, and the brown eyes were just as burdened. One hand still clutching Joe's over the bar, Methos snaked his other hand onto Mac's shoulder.

"I understand, Duncan," he said softly. "I'm sorry."

"So am I, Methos," Mac said heavily, before standing. "Tomorrow at six, forty five O'Hare Street."

"Remember my message, Duncan. " He gave Mac's shoulder a last pat. "Don't look so distraught. It's what we do, you know."

Mac shook his head, as if denying the whole bloody business. He looked at the other two men in sorrow before walking out slowly. Joe immediately turned to Methos. "You cannot be serious, Methos. Get out of town. You don't have to do this."

"Yes, I do, Joe.. If I run, Cassandra will come after me, and I've spent enough of my life looking over my shoulder wondering if Kronos would ever find me. And I owe her."

"You owe her squat!" Joe shouted in desperation. "It was thousands of years ago!"

"Joe - do you know what I did to her?" Methos still held Joe's hand, and Joe gripped Methos' just as tightly.

"Yeah," he said tightly. "She made damn sure I did. You killed her village, killed and raped her .... It's ugly, Methos. I can't pretend it didn't shock the hell out of me when she told us about it. It still does. But it was so long ago, you're different, she's different. Can't she just let it be? Can't you?"

Methos stroked his lover's hand gently. "I wish I could. I wish I could forget what I was, what I did, but I can't. That is part of me forever. Just as what I did to Cassandra is part of her forever. Joe, why do you think she never married? Why she lived in the woods for so long? It was me. I burned the potential for happiness right out of her - destroyed her ability to love normally, to live normally. I made her a freak, I screwed her and screwed her up. I wish I could say she was the only one - but she's just the only one still left alive," he ended bitterly, his mouth twisting in apparent self-disgust.

"Why, Methos?" Joe asked. Something he had wanted to ask for over a year, but hadn't dared. But now ... if this was all the time he would have left with him ... "Why did you do it?"

Another barked laugh. "Because I could. Because I liked it. Because I literally knew no better. Mortal life meant _nothing_ to me then, do you understand? I hated them all, despised them all. Women were slaves, that's all. We all believed that. And by the time Cassandra taught me that it could be different, that women could be companions and friends, and that other people had value, it was too late for her. Ironic, don't you think? If it hadn't been for Cassandra, I would never have had my time with Alexa ..." He lifted his hand and touched Joe's face. "Or you."

Joe leaned into the caress. Goddammit, he had only just discovered the sweetness of love with Methos, and now it was going to be torn from him. "But what if you lose?" he said in quiet desperation.

Methos looked at him sadly. "I've already lost, Joe. No matter what happens tomorrow." Joe watched his expression shift into determined practicality. "Now, why don't we finish up? I'm going to need my sleep."

"Screw the fucking bar, Methos! You could die tomorrow and you're worried about cleaning up?"

"No, but I don't want to come back after a fight and help you then." Methos reached across the bar and cupped Joe's face. "Any night could be my last one - or yours. Don't mourn me before you have to."

Joe looked into his lover's eyes, and saw only resignation. He just couldn't understand it - Methos was a survivor, sometimes unattractively so. Why now? Why _her_? "Please don't do this, Methos."

"I have to. I promised myself a while ago that I would not run from her vengeance."

"When?"

"After Bordeaux. Mac interfered then, did he tell you that?"

"No. She Challenged you?"

"In a way," Methos said, his mouth twisting in a sour smile.

"He saved your life. He never told me," Joe said wonderingly, incredulous that he had come so close to losing Methos before he had ever got to have him. "But why is he letting her do this now?"

"Joe, what choice does he have? He's going to lose a friend whatever he does. She could force _him_ to take my life if she wanted - she has that power. That she is giving him the opportunity to be there to umpire ... is more than I expected." His last words were spoken as if to himself, but then he became brusque. "We should get moving. Are you done?"

"Leave it - you can help me when you get back tomorrow." Joe pinned Methos with his eyes, and the Immortal nodded.

"Okay."

They walked in silence up the stairs to Joe's apartment, but once through the door, Joe took Methos in his arms, and kissed him, enfolding him as if he could prevent harm to him just by holding him hard enough and long enough. "Come to bed," he said roughly, emotion threatening to overwhelm him.

They had been lovers long enough to be easy with each other, but desperation now made them clumsy, Methos tangling with Joe's legs and almost tumbling him, hands tearing at shirts and belts and flies, mouths searching and taking and delving for closer and closer contact ... eventually Joe just let Methos lead them over to the bed. He thought for a moment that Methos wouldn't even wait for him to unstrap his prostheses, but he turned gentle, lowering Joe carefully down, taking his trousers off, and removing his legs with practiced ease, as if tending to his disabled lover was the greatest honour in the world. Then he removed his own clothes with a careful dignity, watching Joe's face the whole time, his expression sad but tender. Joe was choking up - if he'd had to speak then, he knew his voice would break, but there was no need for words now.

Methos knelt between Joe's legs, running his hands slowly up the powerful, ruined thighs, over his hips, and splaying his fingers out over Joe's ample stomach, massaging, stroking. Joe needed Methos like he needed air right now, but he wasn't hard - he hoped Methos would understand the reason, and it seemed he did, for he cupped Joe's genitals carefully, looking at them with affection, and stroking them almost casually, their flaccid state apparently of no consequence. He leaned up and took Joe's mouth in a scorching kiss, and his eyes met Joe's. A brushing of bare cheek against bristles, a caress to a nipple, and then Methos moved down and bestowed a loving kiss on Joe's cock before taking it into his mouth and suckling gently, getting comfortable, one hand cradling Joe's balls, the other possessively holding his hip, his head resting on Joe's thigh. Joe put a hand on Methos' dark head and played with the short dark hair. Methos' touch wasn't really arousing, but it was comforting, and in a way, that was much better.

He let Methos tend to him like this for a few minutes, but it was obvious sex wasn't going to happen. "Methos, come on up here." Methos looked up at him, then slowly moved up his body so Joe could hold him in his arms. "I'm sorry, I can't seem to ..."

Methos smiled sheepishly. "You're not the only one, Joe. Guess Woody Allen was wrong about sex and death being natural bed fellows."

"You can't die. Promise me, Methos."

Methos just looked at him kindly, then took his hand and kissed it. "Joe, don't. Why don't we get into bed properly and get some sleep?"

"I don't think I can," Joe admitted.

"Want a massage?"

"No, I want you to get to high ground and stay there," he said gruffly. Methos looked at him until he gave in. "Okay, I know. You can't blame a guy for trying."

"I don't blame you for trying, Joe. I love you for trying," Methos said softly, kissing his hand again before rolling off the bed and turning the lights off. Joe got under the covers, and Methos slid in beside him, to immediately be taken in Joe's arms. Even though it couldn't possibly affect the outcome the following morning, Joe felt a desperate need to hold Methos close to him and Methos seemed happy to let him be protective, for which he was grateful. He felt there were things he should say, things he needed to say, but the comforting silence was important too, and in the end he did not speak, letting his hands and his touch convey his love and his anxiety for him.

He wouldn't have thought he would sleep - would have bet good money he would toss and turn all night, but in fact, when he did finally wake, the bedside clock told him it was quarter past five. The bed beside him was empty. He felt a brief moment of panic before he saw that Methos was sitting on the sofa, the reading lamp turned away so he was not disturbing his sleeping lover.

"You okay?" Joe called softly. Methos rose gracefully, clad in Joe's bathrobe, and came to sit on the bed. He had an envelope in his hand and held it out to Joe, who shook his head. "No way, man. If that's your will, tear it up. I don't want love notes from you either."

Methos took it back. "It's not a will, Joe, nor a letter. I've just made a list of accounts and passwords, and there are some keys in there. If nothing else, you may want to get hold of my journals before the Watchers do. I've made a note of a couple of things I want Mac to have."

"Stop it, Methos!" Joe said, wanting to put his fingers in his ears. "You're talking yourself into losing!"

"I'm just being practical, Joe. One of us will lose. Cassandra will have done the same thing, I have no doubt of that. Mac's probably having the same conversation with her right now." He pushed the envelope into Joe's unwilling paw. "Look, it's just a list, Joe. You can deal with it when you have to." He stood up. "But I do have something for you I want you to have." He walked over to his backpack and pulled out a slim book.

"Another diary?"

"Yes. I started this after the first night we spent together." He placed it on Joe's chest. "It's yours, no matter what happens today. I ... I wanted you to know what being with you has meant to me." Joe looked at Methos' face, and for the first time since Mac had dropped his bombshell, he saw the weariness, the grief at the pain he was going to cause one way or another, grief too, undoubtedly, for the loss of a long life. He put a hand over the book on his chest.

"Thanks. I'm counting on you reading it to me," he said huskily.

"If I can, I will." Methos glanced at the clock and following his look, Joe realised time was slipping away. "I better get dressed."

"Yeah, help me up." Joe sat up.

"Joe, you don't have to go. You don't have to see ..."

"I'm a Watcher, Methos. I Watch, that's what I do."

"Not this," Methos said gently, touching his face.

"Damn right, this. Two of the world's oldest Immortals facing each other and you want no one to record it? What's the matter, you think I ain't up to it? I ain't tough enough? Because I am. I can watch you die and put it ... write it in ..." His bravado died, and he could no longer look at Methos, but then warm lips touched his forehead.

"Joe, don't do this to yourself. Come as my friend, if you must, not as a Watcher. No one needs to record this."

"I'm gonna," Joe said fiercely. "Now hand me my goddamn legs and get out of my way." Silently, Methos helped him into his underwear and his prostheses, got him upright before turning away to dress himself quickly. He found himself mesmerised by the flash of Methos' Ivanhoe, and catching his look, Methos grimaced before hiding the weapon in his coat.

"Shall I drive?" Methos asked. He had eaten nothing, and going by the way his own stomach was roiling, Joe understood why. Even the thought of coffee nauseated him.

Joe refused. "No, you concentrate on how you're gonna win, buddy. I'll drive."

Methos stared out the passenger window as Joe made his way through the quiet, almost deserted early morning streets, still dark with the first pink fingers of dawn in the east yet to make the street lighting unnecessary. The only words Methos said was in answer to Joe's question as to whether he'd got any sleep. "Not much," was the reply, and Joe didn't dare ask how little that was exactly.

Mac's T-Bird was already there as Joe's vehicle pulled up, and as Joe parked, the Scot himself emerged from the shadows. He looked as tired as Methos, who was pale and drawn in the ghostly pre-dawn light, and his expression was grim. "Where is she?" Joe asked.

"The other side, by the water. Methos ... I've got to search you. I've searched her."

Methos gave him a wry look of understanding, before extracting his sword, taking off his long coat and giving it to Joe. He stood with his arms raised as Mac patted him down. "Thank you," Mac said softly, and Joe saw the two men's eyes meet in understanding.

"Let's go, Duncan," Methos said. "Joe, I know I'd felt better if you waited here."

"I'm sorry, Methos. It's what I gotta do." Forgive me, my friend, Joe pleaded silently. Finally Methos nodded and turned to walk into the darkened building.

Already the sky was lighter, and as they emerged in the open air by the dock, the blue sparkled and the light glittered over a glassy bay. All eyes were on the slim woman standing proudly, facing the water, her hair loose, and in her hand, a sword held in a strong but relaxed grip. At their approach she turned slowly. "Methos," she said, infusing that single word with disgust.

"Cassandra," Methos returned neutrally. "I am come to your bidding."

Her lip curled in a slight sneer, but she said nothing to him. "He's clean," Mac confirmed. He held out two small objects - earplugs. "Cassandra's given me her word that she will not use the Voice or any magic on you, Methos, but if you want, you can have these."

Joe was surprised that Methos shook his head immediately. "Cassandra's word is good enough," he said quietly, and even the female Immortal was taken aback. She recovered quickly.

"Duncan, take the mortal out of harm's way."

Mac tugged on Joe's sleeve and they stepped back. "Wait," Joe said suddenly. Methos looked at him in puzzlement. "Just ... good luck," he said lamely, and thought as last words to one's lover went, they totally sucked. Methos just smiled sadly, saluted him with his sword, and then his attention was all on Cassandra.

They stepped around each other warily and it was clear Methos was waiting for Cassandra to make the first move, which she did with no warning. Methos parried that first murderous strike and was immediately on his back foot. Cassandra advanced, striking furiously, and although Methos retreated at every blow, none came close to hitting him. Joe was no particular connoisseur of sword fighting, ironic considering who he Watched, but it seemed to him that something was wrong. Mac's face confirmed it - "He's not fighting her," he whispered.

"Is she doing something to him?" Joe demanded to know.

"No. He's just not attacking. Goddammit, Methos!" Mac cursed softly. Joe saw the emotions warring on Mac's face, and wished he was carrying his gun, because it seemed shooting Cassandra was the only thing that was going to save the world's oldest Immortal now.

Cassandra had managed to draw first blood on Methos' arm, and he was making a good pretence at apparently fighting back, but even Joe could tell she was in no danger. Both of them were breathing hard, and even in the cool dawn, sweating. Suddenly, Cassandra managed to knock Methos' sword from his hand, and it went spinning yards away. Her sword was immediately at his throat, and he fell to his knees. "No," Joe said quietly in raw anguish, and Mac's grip on his arm tightened unbearably. This couldn't be happening.

Cassandra made no move to strike - the point of her sword dug into the hollow of Methos' throat just under the Adam's apple. She said something in a harsh language Joe couldn't identify, and Methos replied quietly in the same language. Her face twisted in anger and she drew the sword back to swing. Joe couldn't watch, but the expected thud of a head falling didn't come - he opened his eyes. Cassandra's sword was at the side of Methos' neck. She said something, he replied and closed his eyes, but then she slapped his face. It seemed to Joe that Methos said the same words again, she answered with an apparent question and Methos nodded slowly. With a snarl, Cassandra drove the tip of her sword into the wooden decking, then spread her arms out, calling in the same strange language, apparently invoking heaven, staring at the sky.

An eerie whining began, like wind through telephone wires, and a fog like the first tendrils of a Quickening rose from around her feet. In amazement, Joe watched as light swirled about her, her hair flew in a wind that centred on her body, and her green eyes seemed to glow. Methos cried out as she seized his face in her hands and called out more incantations, but he did not rise or struggle against her grip, even though he was clearly in great pain. Wind whipped around them and the light grew and grew until they were enveloped in a blindingly luminous cloud that hid them both, and all that could be heard were Cassandra's guttural mutterings and Methos' moans.

"Mac, you gotta stop this," Joe said urgently, convinced this was some sort of freaky vengeance by Cassandra and would have moved forward but for the Highlander's restraining hand.

"No, we can't. I promised. She won the fight. I can't interfere."

"What if she leaves him crazy? Brain-damaged?"

Mac turned sorrowful eyes on him. "Then I may have to take both their heads," he said heavily.

The light was brighter, it seemed to Joe, even than the rising sun, and he wondered if Cassandra planned to immolate herself and her hated former captor. But there was no heat, and if it were not for the fact it was Methos caught in it, the beauty of the strange apparition would have taken Joe's breath away.

They were both mesmerised by the strange sight - it was like staring into a kaleidoscope, or an aurora, and at the back of Joe's mind was the thought that they had been hypnotised. He was powerless to resist and could only watch. By the way the sky had lightened, and the stiffness in his legs, Joe knew it was many minutes before the brightness and the wind began to diminish in intensity, and as the cloud dissipated, Joe was astonished to see Cassandra kneeling in front of a sobbing Methos, clutching his hands in hers, and whispering to him. Mac looked as stunned as Joe felt but neither man made a move towards the other two.

After long minutes, Cassandra stood. She placed a hand on Methos' head and said some final words in a gentle tone before stepping away. Methos bent low over the ground, weeping quietly but he appeared otherwise unharmed. Joe felt weak in knees he no longer had. He wanted to go to his lover's side, but didn't dare while Cassandra was still there. After picking up her sword, she walked towards them, and Joe saw she was very pale, trembling slightly. Mac took hold of her arms and she sagged slightly before straightening up.

"Thank you," Mac said with obvious emotion. "Thank you for being merciful."

"I spared him for my sake, not yours, Duncan," she said, but not unkindly. She kissed his cheek. "You and I will not meet again."

"But will you be all right?" he asked, his voice thickened with concern.

She smiled weakly. "Yes. I will. Go to him, Duncan. He needs you more than I do." And with that, she freed herself gently from MacLeod's grip and with dignity, walked away into the warehouse.

Joe needed no more prompting and walked to Methos' side. Mac was there too, crouching beside the oldest. "Methos, are you all right?"

Methos showed no sign of hearing him, but his sobs had quietened. Mac put his hands under Methos' arms and lifted the unresisting man up.

"Jesus," Joe cursed. Methos looked horrible. What had that fucking witch done to him?

As if to answer him, Methos opened his eyes. "I'm okay," he croaked, before shutting his eyes again as if he was in pain.

"Joe, get his sword," Mac ordered, and once the weapon had been collected, Methos was half dragged, half carried back to Joe's car. "Let's get him back to the barge," Mac said.

"No way. He's coming back with me," Joe said firmly.

Mac blinked, and then nodded. "Okay, I'll follow. You'll need help to get him up the stairs. "

Mac's precaution was well-founded. Methos was unresponsive by the time Joe got back to the bar, and only with Mac's strong arm did he get up the stairs. Mac put him on the sofa and Joe dragged the comforter off the bed and wrapped it around him. Without speaking, Mac quickly made coffee for three, and added a big slug of whiskey in the drink he handed Methos. The older Immortal clutched the drink as if his existence depended on it. Joe and Mac shared looks of concern, mixed with the beginnings of relief that their friend was still alive and that Mac did not have to mourn the loss of another of his loved ones.

No one spoke for a long time, until Methos had finished his coffee and Mac took the mug from his hands. Joe saw Mac's surprise as Methos unselfconsciously snuggled next to Joe on the sofa, laying his head on his lover's shoulder. He stared back until Mac gave a tiny shrug. "Hey, kid, want to tell us what happened?" he asked the lump lying on him.

Methos opened heavy lidded eyes, and his voice was slurred, either from exhaustion or from the alcohol. "She didn't kill me," he said slowly.

"Yeah, we figured. Why?"

There was no answer, and Joe wondered if Methos had just fallen asleep. He nudged the dozy man, who shook himself a little. "Don't know," he said simply.

Joe looked at Mac who made a 'don't ask me' gesture before standing up. "I'll leave you two alone - I think he needs to get some sleep. Do you want me to do anything before I go?"

Joe was pretty well trapped by the weight of Methos' now unconscious body and was reluctant to disturb him. "Yeah, if you could ring Mike and tell him to take charge today, that'd be good. And, Mac, could you bring me that book on the bed?"

Mac handed him the journal without a word before turning to go. With his hand on the door handle, he suddenly smiled. "He looks good on you, Joe."

Joe felt his face lift in an answering grin. "Thanks, pal. I'll call, okay?"

Mac nodded and left. Resigned to being a pillow for the foreseeable future, Joe made himself as comfortable as he could, letting Methos' head slip down and rest in his lap. He figured when he woke up, they could move to the bed. Now that all had gone quiet, he could let the few tears fall that had been gathering behind his eyes, in utter relief that what had promised to be one of the darkest days of his life, had ended so well, and with the man he was coming to love with a passion unlike any he had ever experienced, safe and warm in his arms. He still looked like shit, Joe thought, but he was alive and that was all that mattered when you were dealing with Immortals.

Wiping his face with his arm, he picked up the little book Mac had fetched for him. Methos' square careful handwriting - something he had known well before he had even met the man because of his work with Don Salzar - was stark black against the white of the page, and easy to read. He turned to the back, to the last entry.

 _Joe's still fast asleep, lucky guy. I had to get up or I'd have woken him_ _thrashing around and he needs rest. Some people are more beautiful asleepthan awake, but Joe is not one of them. Without those bright, intelligent eyeswatching you as he speaks, you get no idea of how special the man is wholives in his body. It's like you have no concept of the magic he can weavewith his fingers until he plays - they look like the hands of an artisan, and I_ _know how crushingly strong they are, but they play the strings of a guitarlike he's caressing the face of his first born. The first time he touched me like_ _that ... did he know what he did to me? Did he know how hard I got? I usedto fantasise about having his fingers on me, being played like his instrument,but the reality exceeds my fantasy by so much I have had to discard it as apoor and worthless thing._

 _God, I want him now. I'm so tired, so jittery. I think I had an hour's sleep if_ _that, and if I were planning a serious response to Cassandra's Challenge, I'dbe in trouble. I haven't been able to tell Joe I will not fight her - I cannot kill_ _her, even to defend myself. She alone of any person dead or alive has themost right to claim my life, and although I can't be sanguine about dying, I_ _have so many regrets bound up with Cassandra and I am tired of carryingthem. Tired of being afraid, tired of waiting for it to blow up in my face andhurting Joe or Mac. I surprise myself that I can even think of doing this, butI've lived with my crimes for a long time and suffered no punishment forthem. I owe Cassandra. I owe Joe to her. For that, she can ask her price andI will pay it._

Dear God, Joe thought. He did that because of me? He looked down at his sleeping companion, puzzled and angry in equal measure. Did you really think I would think it was a fair exchange, Methos? he asked silently. As if his words had been heard, Methos twisted in his sleep, and snuggled even closer. Exasperated at how such a simple thing could diffuse his temper, Joe laid a gentle hand on the dark head, and continued reading.

 _I've been trying to find the right words to say to Joe, and cannot think of_ _anything that will do other than cause him pain. All I have are the memoriesof a long and often wasted life, and it is too late to regret what a poor gift that_ _makes for anyone. Should we have made love last night? Would it have madeany difference to how I feel now, the sorrow at not being there for him any_ _more? Would it make things easier for him? I don't know. I never know.Such a long life, so many things I have still not learned. Death is still the one_ _thing I cannot deal with graciously. I'm sure he'll handle my loss better than Idid Alexa's. I don't see the brave man that is Joe Dawson drinking himself_ _into a daze every night, or retreating into the past. He's a man who meetsevery challenge head on. If I had met him after I left the Horsemen, I know Iwould not have lived such a cowardly life. I hope the manner of my death ismore edifying than the manner of my living._

 _I am going to die today. There, I've said it. Does it look so terrible? How_ _many other people will do the same and not have the grace that Cassandra andMac have granted me - a last night with the man I love, time to weep a littleand to just be, a few hours without the need to worry about the futurebecause it is now certain. I know there are a thousand things I should beregretting now, and yet the only thing that presses hard is that I will miss thetime I could have with Joe. But I've known him for fourteen years and that issomething I would not have traded for anything. I have been so very lucky. Itis only greed to want more._

And then a last few hastily written words:

 _Joe, I've decided you should have this. Go in peace, my dear friend._ _Remember me. M._

Joe had to wipe his face again - and again - when he finished reading. They hadn't talked much about _them_ \- the relationship, the whole weirdness of them being together, and even though Methos had admitted his feelings for Joe were as strong as the bluesman had suspected, Joe had not realised the depth of Methos' appreciation of him, how much he valued the whole man. It awed him to be held in such regard, with such passion by this enigma of a creature, good and evil of mythic proportions rolled up in such an innocent-looking package. He traced one large ear with a gentle finger, touched one sharp cheekbone and noted how Methos' eyes, even in sleep, were etched with pain and fatigue. At his caress, those eyes fluttered open and looked up at him. "Don't tell me I fell asleep on you in front of MacLeod," Methos whispered.

"You sure did, buddy. He thinks we make a cute couple." Methos groaned and closed his eyes again. "Are you all right? You're acting like you took a Quickening."

Methos rolled so he faced up towards Joe. "In a way I did. She drew my Quickening out of me and joined it to hers. I didn't even know that was possible."

"Why? Was she trying to hurt you?"

Methos laughed, but it was a dusty sound, and he covered his eyes with his hand as if he had a headache. "No, she wasn't _trying_ to hurt me, but it did. It hurt like being burned in a fire."

"But why? Why not just kill you?"

"She didn't want my Quickening inside her, and I don't blame her. But she needed to be the one to decide to spare me - before, she did it because Mac more or less forced her to. She wanted to recover control, to make her own decision of mercy."

"And that's what you were asking for? Mercy?"

"No. I asked her to forgive me before she killed me." Methos took his hand away and his eyes were dark and wet looking. He sat up and rubbed his face wearily. "That's why she slapped me. I have no right to ask that."

"And?"

"I asked her again. She wanted to know if I would allow myself to be healed, and then she would think about forgiveness. I agreed. She ... she ..." He covered his eyes again, and his voice dropped to a whisper. "She showed me all she was, all she had been and experienced at my hands, all the pain. The humiliation, her grief, how ... filthy she felt for a thousand years at the thought of a man's touch. How every male she saw took my face until she could not live with people any more. She showed me her teacher, the one we killed, and the family who loved her - gone like leaves in the wind because we _liked_ to kill and destroy." His mouth twisted in an ugly way. "And then she showed me the rest, how she was beginning to heal. It was so beautiful..."

Joe stroked Methos' arm to soothe him, knowing the story was not finished. After a minute, he started speaking again. "But it meant she had to see all _I_ was too, and show me that at the same time. She showed me what I am, what I was, how they are the same and different, and how I have been living like a coward all these thousands of years with nothing like the excuse she had." He stood up, apparently too restless to be still, and walked to the table, resting his hands on it, leaning on it, his back to Joe.

"And then she gave you her forgiveness?"

"No, something more precious. She gave me her blessing. She... she told me to live," he said, his voice curiously muffled and then his shoulders began to shake. His legs gave way and he collapsed onto a chair, his head pillowed on his arms as he sobbed quietly. After a moment, Joe levered himself up and walked behind Methos, putting his hand on the weeping man's back, rubbing it in small circles. When Methos' grief looked as if it might never abate, Joe sat and took his hand, made Methos face him. That made Methos look around, collect himself, and he wiped his eyes with his free hand, his breath still catching.

"What sort of healing is this?" Joe asked, angry at the pain Cassandra had brought.

"The best, most complete," Methos whispered, and a couple of tears fell from his open eyes. "I never cried for anyone but myself before. I never cried for _her_ , for what I had done to her and thousands like her. She has shown me love after great pain. I don't need her forgiveness. I need my own."

He closed his eyes and swayed a little. Joe put a firm hand on his shoulder. "And do you forgive yourself, Methos?"

"Not yet. But I can see it from here. I can see ... it was so beautiful," he said quietly. Joe held on and waited. Finally Methos looked up and smiled weakly, sniffling.

"What's it feel like watching the collapse of a historic monument?"

"I don't know. But it hurts to see you like this." He sat down, and took both of Methos' hands in his. "What can I do?"

Methos shook his head. "Nothing. Everything. I ... don't know. I think ...." He took a deep breath. "I think I need to talk to Mac. There's a conversation we tried to have and failed. I want to try again."

Joe had a shrewd idea what that had been about - he'd had to listen to MacLeod's angry, hurt complaints about the apparently callous attitude of the man in front of him now. He'd reserved his own judgement, but there was no doubt that the friendship between the two Immortals, once so strong, had never completely recovered from the events in Bordeaux, to the sorrow of each of them. If Methos was now able to mend the relationship, Joe could only be pleased about that. But he wasn't sure Methos was in any shape to talk to Mac right now, and said so.

"Neither am I, Joe, but I think he might like to talk to me. What did Cassandra say when she left?"

"That she and Mac would not meet again. And then she told us to go to you."

"God. Poor Duncan. I really better go to see him."

"Want me to take you?"

Again, Methos shook his head. "No, let me go on my own, Joe." He bent forward and kissed Joe on the lips. "But you and I will talk later."

"Damn right," Joe growled. " I got a bone to pick with you about some of that crap you wrote."

Methos grimaced. "Thought you might. Joe, I don't know that I can even begin to explain the relationship between Cassandra and me ..."

"Oh, screw that! It's the relationship between you and me that's twisting my nuts! Don't tell me you love me and then go off to kill yourself because you think you gotta pay for being happy!" Joe's anger erupted quite suddenly, surprising himself, and Methos winced. "If things had gone like you planned, I'd be sitting here crying over that fucking book!"

"Joe... Joe, please," Methos begged. Joe forced himself to calm down to listen to his lover. "The only reason you aren't doing that is because of her. She could have killed me if she wanted - do you really think that someone with that sort of power would have been stopped by earplugs?"

"But her Watcher said she fought like a beginner against Kronos ... why didn't she use that on him?"

"I don't know. She probably tried, but Kronos was pretty powerful that way himself. I'm guessing she wouldn't want to open up to him the way she did to me today. The point is - I had to put myself in her hands. She deserved it, and I had no choice. I had no wish for her death. I never had. She ... once meant a great deal to me. She still does," he said softly.

"You got a death wish, you know that?"

"I'm five thousand years old, Joseph. Not the most convincing evidence for a death wish."

Joe snorted with disgust. "Oh yeah? You offered your head to MacLeod and to Cassandra, and taking up with Kronos wasn't exactly likely to keep you alive."

"Worked for a thousand years, didn't it? Joe, can we have this conversation some other time?"

Joe took in the red-rimmed eyes, the tightness around his lover's mouth and realised Methos was only holding on by a thread. "You know you haven't even had breakfast yet. Let me make you some coffee and toast. Mac can wait."

Seemingly out of energy, Methos nodded listlessly and sat in silence. Joe's instincts proved sound, because as he got carbohydrate and caffeine into his lover, Methos' colour improved and he perked up, even though his eyes were sad. Joe even thought he detected a glimmer of peace behind the tiredness. As he cleared up, Methos came up behind him and wrapped his arms around him, laying his head on Joe's back. "Thank you," he said quietly. "I wish I could tell you how much you being with me, looking after me means to me. I'm sorry I hurt you."

Joe twisted around, and kissed Methos' cheek. "Feeling better?"

"Much." Methos broke free. "Do you mind if I head on over to the barge now?"

"You sure you don't want a lift?"

"Yes. Turn your Watcher antenna off for a few hours will you, Dawson?" Methos said in mock irritation. "I'll see you later, I promise." He lifted Joe's hand and kissed it, a gesture Joe never thought he would accept from a man, but which seemed right when Methos did it.

Joe spent a hellish day worrying, even though logically he knew Methos was completely safe and was doing the right thing. Eventually he went down to the bar and put in most of a shift. It was only a half hour before closing when Methos finally turned up, a few sheets to the wind, with a garrulously happy MacLeod in tow.

"Jeez, I hope you didn't drive over," Joe said, watching them with amusement.

Methos winked at him exaggeratedly. "Don't drink and drive, Joseph. We've been good little ... people." Joe could tell the rat was almost about to say 'Immortals' and wondered at his audacity even with the bar almost deserted.

"Come on, Joe," Mac pleaded. "Give us some whiskey and have one yourself."

Joe shook his head in disgust. He'd never seen Mac completely drunk, but he'd read of some stuff in the Chronicles which made it clear that the Scot could be pretty wild when he wanted to be. And Methos ... part of him kinda looked forward to that.

He cleared out the last two customers and told Mike to clear out, before grabbing a bottle of the good stuff from behind the bar and joining his two friends who were sitting at a table and beaming at him with the boozy goodwill of the terribly tipsy. Methos put his arm around Joe's waist as he came to the table. "Joe, Joe, Joe. I really love you, you know that."

Joe didn't know what to make of that, and he sure didn't know what Mac was going to say. The Scot just grinned. "You're embarrassing him, Methos," Mac said solemnly, then spoiled the effect by giggling.

"Who the fuck cares? I love this guy and I don't care who knows it. Isn't that right, Joe?"

Ooh boy, Methos was really flying here. "Whatever you say. But I think you guys have had enough." He whisked the Scotch away again to a chorus of complaints, and put the coffee maker back on. He poured himself a drink though - after the day he'd had, he figured he deserved it. He stood with his back to the bar watching the two Immortals, who had stopping moaning about the lack of booze and were grinning at each other in a way that made Joe feel warm inside. It was like they were before Kronos, before Alexa even. Before the Dark Quickening. The guardedness, the tension, the hooded way Methos would look at MacLeod when he thought he wasn't watching - all gone. Methos glanced over at Joe, his eyes clear and intelligent and the bluesman suddenly realised that his lover wasn't half as pissed as he appeared to be. That his public declaration of love was a gift to him, not the sloppy sentimentality of a drunk. Joe smiled and Methos nodded before turning back to Mac.

As Joe put coffee and cream in front of the two friends, listened to Mac regale them with a totally silly story of revelry with Fitz (which had escaped being recorded in his Chronicles and would stay unrecorded, Joe vowed), his hand, resting on his thigh, was seized by Methos before the joined hands were brought up firmly and put on the table. Joe looked at Methos who smiled slyly back and then began to loudly deride certain factual errors in Mac's account.

And their hands stayed joined like that, on view, for the next hour as Mac and Methos argued good-naturedly and after the Highlander had been poured into a cab. They were held while Methos led Joe upstairs, parting only to allow the shedding of shirts and pants, and to let Joe unstrap his legs, and then the lovers' hands were firmly clasped as Methos kissed and licked and suckled, drawing a extravagant orgasm out of Joe which left him shuddering and gasping. They stayed together as Methos nudged inside Joe, his way eased only by his own careful attentions. Joe's hands were pinned over his head as Methos rode him into ecstasy and Joe fancied that the light surrounded his lover again, now illuminating eyes which had lost their carefulness wariness and were only full of love and happiness. He didn't have to imagine the joyous shout as Methos came, and then their hands were clutched together to Methos' bosom as he turned towards Joe and allowed himself to be held close, his face tucked into Joe's neck, a silky warm aliveness that made him feel ten feet tall and eighteen again.

Joe rested his nose in Methos' hair, and drank deeply of the unique scent of this man, all clean and smoky and delicious. Methos lived. He lived. Amazing that such a simple fact could cause such intense pleasure. Long after he was food for the worms , Methos would still be around - so he hoped and prayed - but the thought brought him only satisfaction. Through that long life to come, Methos would carry the memory of Joe's love for him along with all the other wonderful, terrible things he had seen and done. And that, Joe thought, was really something.

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written nearly twenty years ago under another pseudonym. It hasn't been revised (or reread by me) since then.
> 
> I am posting this and my other stories from this period purely so people can read them if they choose. I won't be reading comments, and don't care if you leave kudos. I'm dumping them and running.
> 
> Having said that, I worked hard on them, and I hope they still entertain someone out there.


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